


Painting the Roses Red

by rissalf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Dreams and Nightmares, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Violence, really dark shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 18:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11064669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/pseuds/rissalf
Summary: Small obsessions can destroy the things we hold most dear.





	Painting the Roses Red

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilentSinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/gifts).



> To the one person in my life who could truly appreciate something so abhorrently fucked up.

_“Say it,”_ Edward snarls. The long fingers of his right hand twist Oswald’s hair at the roots – an unspoken exclamation point at the end of the command – as his left squeezes the man’s hip as though it were an overripe orange. “You know how this has to end, Oswald. Just fucking say it.”

“No.”

The room is red. Drapes, bed, floor, ceiling – all of it awash in the sanguine glow of some seemingly inscrutable source. It’s vaguely unsettling; Edward’s skin prickles. He cannot help but think of blood.

He doesn’t remember how they got here. How this particular scenario began. If Oswald had protested or provoked. If he forced the man onto his hands and knees or if he went willingly. Did Oswald undress himself? Or was he stripped bare? Ed remembers nothing, but here they are.

Wherever here is. Whenever here is.

Oswald is silent beneath him: naked and on all fours, fistfuls of downy pillow clutched in his small, slender hands. He looks impossibly slight and delicate, as though he’s made of nothing more substantial than filament and glass. He could crack in Ed’s white-knuckle grip.

Sometimes, Edward wants to break him. He wants to push him to the brink and dangle him over the precipice. He wants to tear open his soft body and crawl inside, to take him apart piece by piece. Watching. Examining. Viscera, blood, sinew.

_What makes you tick?_

The idea of owning the kingpin, of swallowing him whole and spitting out his bones has become an obsession. There are a million ways to appease this compulsion – every unveiled weakness delivering a different sort of high, every choked sob and wretched moan feeding the beast within – but the demon in Edward Nygma won’t be satisfied until he’s tried each one.

He’s fully sheathed in Oswald, cock perfectly swathed in the warmth of his tight ass, balls flush against Oswald’s pale, sumptuous flesh. Taking him now, fucking him until he’s raw and bloody – until he’s painted as red as everything else in this room – would be far too easy. This isn’t a new game, after all. Edward has always delighted in making Oswald beg, and Oswald – though he portrays the reluctant beggar – performs his role with unfailing conviction. The power play is something they both get off on: a delicious yin and yang that satisfies the tenebrous hunger that dwells within each.

He grins as Oswald clenches around the ample length filling him so completely, and finds himself delirious with the notion that beneath him Oswald is exasperated and furious – and utterly at his mercy.

 _Is this where you break?_ The room seems ready to spin, a kaleidoscope of carmine debauchery; Ed stifles a manic chuckle.

“Just fuck me, and get it done with,” Oswald sputters. There's still defiance in his voice, remnants of the petulant prince demanding his crown, but it’s a weary sort of pride, worn as thin as a beggar’s blanket.

But Edward remains perfectly still; he wagers that the sheer thrill that comes with such dominance could keep him hard enough to outlast even Oswald’s spite, but he won’t test the theory now. His focus is singular. Today is about breaking Oswald, about shredding the man’s ego and pissing on the tattered remains.

Everything is red; does Oswald see it, too?

Edward releases his grip on the mobster’s inky hair and reaches around to take hold of the man’s dick, his large palm and agile fingers easily enveloping the modest appendage. He pulls at him slowly, working languidly from base to tip, shivering slightly as Oswald’s cock begins to stiffen at the protracted manipulation.

Edward doesn’t want it to be this way. Why can’t Oswald just give in? Why can’t he bend, just once? He tightens his grip on Oswald’s cock and increases his pace; the breathy moans of his companion offer a soft, soothing poultice to the tumult unfurling in Edward’s mind. Why is everything red?

Oswald shudders, his legs ready to buckle beneath the weight of orgasm, but Edward ceases everything – not a muscle moved, not a single breath drawn. Oswald is left hanging hard and heavy – on the brink of ecstasy that may as well be a million miles away.

Edward’s laughter drips with unreserved menace, the leer on his lips apparent despite the fact that Oswald cannot see his face. “You didn’t think you’d earned a reward now, did you?”

Oswald gasps as Edward grabs both of his wrists and pulls his arms out from under him and behind his back, forcing him into an ever more submissive posture. “Fuck  _you,”_ Oswald snaps, though it’s muffled against the soft, yielding mattress.

“Very well. Slow and painful it shall be.” Gripping Oswald’s forearms, he pulls back slowly, like a syringe drawing a dose of some sweet, stirring drug, then plunges hard into Oswald with a snap of his hips. “You always were partial to that.”

Oswald wails, the sound catching in the back of his throat in a hiccup, before bursting free like a swollen river tearing through a child’s makeshift dam.

“Fu- _uuuck,”_ he moans. “Edward, _please."_

“If you want to come, you have to say it, Oswald,” Ed murmurs, his long body eclipsing the smaller man’s as he leans forward to whisper into Oswald’s ear. “You know I can do this for hours.”

Edward rolls his hips slowly – in, out, the pace lazy and unhurried. Oswald remains obstinate.

True to his word, Edward repeats the torturous cycle – bringing Oswald to the brink and then leaving him to burn like a worm under the hot summer sun – again and again and again. He loses track of the hour; had he even been aware of it to begin with? Time doesn’t seem to move inside these dull, crimson confines.

It’s a stalemate.

Finally, Ed can take no more. He pulls out with a roar, flipping Oswald onto his back and climbing astride him. One hand bears down on Oswald’s slender neck as the other pumps his dick furiously.

_Say it say it why won’t you say it just fucking say it please-_

He can’t stop it now; he won’t. He’s lost, and everything is red. Oswald’s mouth contorts wordlessly. His cheeks flush a vivid crimson. The whites of his eyes swirl with darkness, a sea of blood threatening to drown the bright green irises.

 _I’m killing him,_ Ed thinks dimly; the warning takes far too long to register.

Edward lets go.

“Please,” Oswald manages to wheeze, “Riddl...”

 

Edward startles awake, soaked to the bone with sweat. He gropes at the sheets beside him, at the empty place where Oswald should be. He isn’t here. Where even _is_ here? He fumbles for his glasses. For the lights. He yanks the lamp chain – once, twice – an acute horror seizing him when the bulb flares to life.

The light is red.

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me.
> 
>  
> 
> [Click here for an absolutely perfect visualization of this fic. It's truly one of the most gorgeous things I've ever seen. <333333333](http://okimi79.tumblr.com/post/161394149551/painting-the-roses-red-by-riddlelvr)


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